Murder on the Nathan James
by Zahnmai
Summary: It started with the body of Neils Sorenson found dead in her lab. Then more deaths and controversy engulf the Nathan James. Can Tom and Rachel's love survive the whirlwind of darkness surrounding them? This is Book 2 of the Wild Is The Wind series.
1. Chapter 1 - Confetti Flowers

Thomas Chandler, captain of the Nathan James bent forward concentrating on the papers littering his desk. They were all different colors and shapes, each unique along a similar theme. _Not exactly Navy standard, but there was a reason for this marked deviation from normal paper pushing._

"Get out!" Rachel Scott's words rang in his ears. "You are being pigheaded, and I don't want to deal with it." Doctor Rachel Scott had found the cure to the Red Flu, and during that long period of sailing around on Chandler's vessel, they had fallen in love.

In addition, Neils Sorenson, the doctor who created the Red Flu that killed 90% of the Earth's population had been until recently working on a dispersal method with Doctor Scott. Her hatred of the man wasn't a secret, and now he'd turned up dead in her lab.

Tom wasn't sure what started the argument; in truth, they seldom argued but their nerves were frayed from recent events, edginess loomed and the discussion combusted like matches and gasoline in the same space. It blew up, and Tom found himself in the hallway alone, holding his danish and coffee, Rachel's door sealed shut behind him.

Alone in his bed shortly thereafter, Tom wondered what the heck happened. He had brought up the murder but not his thoughts about her lack of involvement in it. He never got that far.

Rachel was frayed by the questions of the day, and she was ready to take on anybody who started that line of questioning again.

"You should believe me, because I'm me," she snarled, turning her back on him. "I shouldn't be put through the third degree, because I couldn't kill anybody."

He brought up the conversation they'd had a couple weeks back about how much she wished Sorenson was dead. His first mistake. _It was only a conversation, not a battle plan._

It was only logical to rule her out first. His second mistake. _He shouldn't rule her in at all._ Reference, his first mistake. _It wasn't an executable plan just blowing off steam._

He pulled out his stapler, thought for a moment, then reached in his desk drawer and retrieved tape. It was a small, thin roll that his daughter Ashley had left the last time she visited. The thought of his daughter brought a smile to his face. She was much like her mother, practical and fanciful combined. Her thin tape, she had explained, was for a project she was working on: fairy wings. Every girl needed a set of fairy wings at some point in their lives. It was like nail polish, indispensable.

He used the tape to marry together each part of his creation. He wasn't as dainty as his daughter with the tape, but he got the job done. Looking at his handiwork, he wondered how it would be received. Rachel had been pretty ticked off with him last night. She hadn't even kissed him good night, just closed the door and locking it with a audible click.

Standing in the hallway, styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and a cheese danish in the other, he wondered if he should knock on her door and demand entrance. Dashing that idea for many reasons, not the least of which, discretion, he walked briskly towards his quarters, his eyebrows knitted together into a frown, and his lips were pressed together in a tight, thin line. He hadn't expected to be banished to the corridor after only 10 minutes. He noted that she kept the tea and biscuits — she called them biscuits; he called them cookies — that he proffered on her.

Tom had been looking forward to a relaxing evening with his girlfriend. What he got instead was hissing, snarling, angry glares and finally shown the door. She could be so infuriating sometimes. So, why was he sitting at his desk making silly paper creations? Because no matter how infuriating she could be, he adored her anyway. And, in a way, he could understand her anger. He took another completed paper creation and tossed it in a medium-sized, plastic bag. He knew they would make her feel better about him.

Thank God for Ashley. She had painstakingly taught him how to make these things one Saturday afternoon when he was at home. She'd been a patient teacher, and it was one of the sweetest conglomeration of paper he'd ever put together. He hated to admit it, but at only eight years old, Ashley could get him stand on his head if she asked. So, patiently, all afternoon he had labored with her to make as many of them as possible. Then they'd spread them all over the house; Ashley said they were bringing beauty to a drab world.

Tom finished another three, tossing them in the bag. He wouldn't make as many as he had with Ashley, because wasn't trying to cover a two story house. He did, however, want to make enough to get his point across. He took a pen and wrote words on each of his creations: trust me, love me, forgive me, smile at me, kiss me, hug me — it was all part of the creations. He wrote kiss me and love me more than any of the other phrases. There was a method to him madness.

While it wouldn't solve their overall problem — who killed Neils Sorenson and why — it would take the pressure off the two of them about guilt or innocence. While he would continue to look past the circumstantial evidence that implicated her in the crime, it would allow him to pursue the facts without living in a hellscape without her love and affection. Personally, he didn't believe her capable of such a crime, facts be damned, but he had to look through them to get to the other side and clear her name. Tom's conscience and additional sleuth colleagues deserved that much. What would Slattery, Jeter and Garnett think if he gave into his love for Rachel and cleared her for purely emotional reasons.

Tom taped together more of his creations, smiling at the building results. He wrote, kiss me, again. He wanted to kiss her: kiss her, love her, let her know that even though he was pursuing the clues, everything would be okay. Mostly, he wanted to kiss her. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Lord, man, you've got it bad. She only kicked you out last night._

"Humph," he said. "She's got me wrapped around her little finger just like Darian and Ashley. Women…." Tom smiled when he said it. He wished he had a nickel for every time Ashley painted his toenails pink, and only his daughter could convince him to let her do it. It carried over to Darian who could talk him into trying any number of her concoctions. They always tasted good, but another man of weaker constitution might not hold up under the listings of the ingredients. He laughed at his chauvinistic thoughts. And, now there's Rachel, all spitfire and passion.

"You should be a red head," Tom chuckled to himself. None of what he said was politically correct, he knew, but some stereotypes still worked in the modern world.

Tom gathered the last of his creations into the plastic bag, closed it and headed towards Rachel's quarters. He felt so strange not waking up with her at 5am as was their routine. Instead, he had spent his time from 0500 to 0700 hours making paper creations.

Walking down the still very quiet corridor, he hoped she would open the door and let him in. All this would be for naught if she told him to go away. He didn't even have coffee, tea or anything of the sort, just a bag of paper and hope for a favorable morning outcome.

Tom wanted to see Rachel smile. He arrived outside her quarters and knocked softly on the door. Hearing nothing, he knocked again a little louder. Looking at the doorknob, he noticed the small pink ribbon wrapped around it with a tiny bow. He tried the door; this time finding it unlocked. He smiled to himself. He stepped into her quarters, closing the door behind him. A soft lamp glow from the bedroom washed out in the area. He went to the door and peaked inside, noting that she was sleeping, snuggled up with Bunny, her bedraggled stuffed bunny. Her hair was disheveled, and upon closer inspection, Tom could see light streaks from tears on her cheeks.

He had made her cry; Tom felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He never wanted to make her cry. He wanted to make her laugh, then they could chalk all this up to frayed nerves. He went back into the outer room, and grabbed a handful of his paper creations and threw them up in the air, much like one tosses confetti. Each one landed lightly on the floor, the desk, couch and other flat surfaces in her quarters.

Satisfied with his creation, Tom went into Rachel's bedroom and shook her gently. "Morning, Sunshine," he whispered and watched her turn over, stretch out and smile. For a moment, it was like nothing happened between them, then he saw the emotions from last night make themselves manifest on her features. Before they could settle, he pulled her out of the bed, placing his finger gently on her lips to silence a rising objection. "Close your eyes."

In spite of her initial objection, she smiled and complied. _Good start._

He walked her into the outer room of her quarters, turned on the light and watched her reaction. "Surprise! It's a Chandler family tradition. Flower confetti." Each creation was three dimensional, putting three copies of each together in a triangular formation that gave it depth. Phrases were carefully written on each one.

"Flower confetti?" Rachel said, a smile on her face. She picked up one of them and read "love me" off the flower petal. "I do love you, Tom. More than I should, I think sometimes." She reached and picked up another paper flower. "Kiss me," she whispered to herself, then looked at him, half smiling, half quizzical.

Tom bent over and closed his eyes, puckering his lips. He heard her giggle, then felt her lips, soft against his.

Rachel picked up another flower, and this time it said "hug me." Tom wrapped his arms around her pulling her close. He reached out plucking a "kiss me" from the desktop, and leaned in for a kiss. It felt so good to have her back in his arms again.

"We haven't settled anything," she whispered when the kiss ended.

"I think you're innocent," he stated softly again holding her close.

"Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I love you." He squeezed her gently when he said it. "Last night, I had a lot to think about, and I realized that I couldn't love you the way I do if you were a murderer. I know that sounds silly."

"It's not logical. I needed to know that you are looking to find my innocence, and not my guilt, I know I didn't do anything. I thought you were convinced of my guilt last night."

"No, never baby," Tom said. "I was trying to explain the circumstantial evidence against you. I never said I thought you were guilty."

"It was heavily implied," Rachel countered, some stiffness coming into her body as she spoke. "At least, I thought so last night."

Rachel was right; the way he delivered the evidence against her did seem to imply guilt. His recitation of facts seemed designed to elicit some sort of confession: you went to bed two hours before me and had unaccounted for hours; no one saw you during the time when Sorenson was being murdered; there was blood on your shirt sleeve; you talked about his death, motivation is strong because of what he did to you. The evidence, when presented without emotion, did appear a bit damning.

Rachel's reaction could also be construed as a clue towards her guilt. She threw him out, locked the door and didn't sleep with him that night. When Tom came and found the tiny ribbon tied on her doorknob, and the subsequent discovery that she had cried herself to sleep, it had pushed the evening from guilt on her part to guilt on his. Rachel was passionate, emotional and hot tempered.

'With his recitation of damning facts, he had hurt her feelings. With her in all things except science, she led with emotion. She wasn't an emotional wreck, by no means, but she did have deep feelings, trust issues from childhood and a need to prove her value. Being a murderer hit all her wrong buttons, and an unemotional recitation of facts simply rubbed her all the wrong way.

Tom showed her another flower: "smile at me" which illicited a big smile from her. "I guess I overreacted last night — " she began, but he touched her lips with his again to silence her.

"It was me who was out of line," Tom countered. "I never should have come off like that. My mind is just caught up in finding the killer, and logic and following the clues is all we've got. So, the fact that I came off as a punctilious and pompous idiot didn't help."

Rachel laughed at that. "I was just going to say you were being a jerk."

"That, too." Tom said.

Rachel reached down and picked up another flower — kiss me — and showed it to him.

"With pleasure, my love." Tom leaned in and kissed her, marveling once again about his luck in getting Rachel as his girlfriend, lover and soulmate. He had thought all chances ended with the death of his wife Darian.

Rachel flipped the flower to the other side — Kiss Me — and smiled. "I think I like this family tradition."

The last flower she picked up said, "forgive me", and Tom felt the way she hugged him that she did, in fact, forgive him..


	2. Chapter 2 - Darkness Comes

B-B-B

* * *

Midshipman Sean Dorsan perched on the metal chair appearing nonchalant and disinterested, gaze lowered, seeming to count the specks on the floor. The only thing that belied that impression was his thin leg which bounced slightly up and down, almost a tremor, but to Tom a telltale giveaway that he was nervous and wanted to leave. In the past couple weeks since the "arsenic" incident with Rachel and Sean, Tom had come to not only like, but be able read the subtle signals the young man put off. The twirling, red marker pen in his left hand was another giveaway to his ill ease.

After learning that he had just turned 16, as well as a bit of backstory about his horrific upbringing, Sean had relaxed around Tom to the point where he could laugh around him without the young man looking like he wanted to bolt. Tom pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Without thinking, Tom tousled Sean's close cut, blond hair. It had the desired effect of breaking the palpable tension in the room. "I hate that," Sean whispered but grinning."

Cmdr. Michael Slattery, tall and distinguished, could come off as either a stalwart first officer or a man with a keen eye for prevarication. He was leaning on a cabinet at the other end of Captain's room. Since the death of Sorenson, all crew members were being questioned in the captain's office. Slattery should have been a cop, Tom had mused; he had the instincts of a detective and seemed a born sniffer of the truth. In the previous interviews, this talent had gone for naught, and now it was Sean's turn under the single light with rubber hose at the ready. Slattery was clearly the bad cop to Chandlers easy questioning good cop.

Chandler could chalk Sean's nervousness to his background. He hated scrutiny of any kind just on general principles. "Let's talk, okay?"

"Okay," Sean's reply was barely above a whisper, and he was staring at Chandler's shoes.

"What did I say about my shoes?" Tom threw out the personal joke between them hoping to lessen the tension. Tom had taken on building Sean's confidence by forcing him to look up, and not look at or past the people he talked with, and mostly to stop looking at Tom's shoes when they spoke. Sean's gaze shot up from the floor with a half smile gracing his lips.

"You think I killed Sorenson?" The ship's gossip line was alive and well on the Nathan James.

"Did you?" That was what turned Slattery from dissembling from distinguished to street brawler and private eye. He asked the question of him from across the room. He could be an intimidating form, tall, all muscles, square jaw and discerning gaze. Not much got past him.

"No," Sean declared in a squeaky, high pitched voice, his gaze returning to Tom's shoes. If Tom didn't know Sean better, he might think it was a sign of guilt, but he knew that Sean defaulted to nervous.

"Sean," Tom continued shooting Slattery a sharp glance, "we just want to ask you some questions. We don't think you killed anybody."

"Ok," Sean replied softly. He continued looking at Tom's shoes.

Tom decided not to take him up on downward gaze at the moment, instead deciding to plow through his questions and get them over as quickly as possible. "So, you were unaccounted for on the evening when Sorenson was murdered. Where were you?"

"On the flight deck, getting some air."

"For two hours?" Slattery asked. Sean shrugged but said nothing.

"Did anyone see you on the flight deck?" Tom asked.

"No." Another shrug.

"No one?" Tom pressed.

"No, I was alone," he replied with a soft sigh. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Sean," Tom put in, "what were you doing besides getting air?"

"I was studying. My bunkmates were playing checkers, and I couldn't think so I left for a couple hours to study. The flight deck is always quiet except for the wind which is kind of good for reading."

"In the dark?" Slattery asked. "In the dark and in the wind."

"It was a breeze, and I have a flashlight," Sean whispered. Slattery leaned closer as if he couldn't hear him. Sean cleared his throat then said it again with more volume. As he said it, he stared directly past Tom at Slattery. There was a flash of anger in his gaze, a quick frown, but then his gaze dropped back to the floor.

"Sean, we have to ask these questions," Tom said. "What were you studying?"

"Naval vessels, the differences between them, the armament, radar, sonar, stuff like that." Sean's tone softened when he spoke with Tom, something Tom noted, but with Slattery their friendship hadn't evolved as fast or far. Sean's voice seemed clipped, edgy and less trusting. At least, that's the way Tom perceived it. He could be wrong, but didn't think so. Tom figured it was because he was attached to Rachel, a slip at an earlier exercise session told him that Sean was aware of their relationship. Tom also felt like Sean accepted him into the safe and trusted circle of people he allowed his guard to drop around.

"We all know that you couldn't stand Neils Sorenson," Slattery said. Tom saw Sean stiffen.

"So," he replied, his gaze never leaving the floor. Again felt that unspoken challenge in his voice.

"So, that's why we're asking about your whereabouts," Slattery continued.

"Well, now you know, Sir.," Sean replied.

"That's not a very good explanation," Slattery countered. He stopped leaning on the counter and pulled up a chair next to Captain Chandler. Clearly, the attacking from the side wasn't having the desired effect. Sean was just getting angry and less communicative.

"What do you want me to say? I didn't kill him." Sean drew himself up to his 5'6" looking angry and frustrated, his words clipped and delivered swiftly as he glared at Cmdr. Slattery. "I may have wanted to kill him, but I didn't. I promised Rachel that no harm would come to him by me, and I am nothing if not true to my word with Rachel." Sean resumed his former position staring at the floor, his right leg tremoring in spite of his icy, calm demeanor every where else.

"Why anyone would hit Sorenson over the head with a hammer is beyond me," Sean half laughed. "There are so many ways to kill a person, that would be easier and equally effective and less energetic."

"Like what?" Slattery asked.

"Well, like the arsenic overdose he gave me and Rachel," Sean continued. "Turnabout being fair play and all that. Why kill someone like an idiotic burglar in Los Angeles in the middle of the night. Skulking around someone's home and he happens upon the victim, then WHAM hammer to the head. It's ridiculous."

Slattery didn't see Tom smile as his back faced his first officer, but Sean saw it and continued, "Why would I do that? It makes no sense, and don't you think I'd have some blood on me somewhere when I returned to my quarters. What did I do, stop and shower, then redress in the bloody clothes from hitting him over the head. My roommates can be a bit non-observant, but I think they'd notice if I came back covered in blood, don't ya think, Commander."

Even Slattery had to smile at the thought. "I guess you're right, Midshipman."

"Now can I go and do what I always do — study. Because I have mentors who are always on me with questions I haven't studied yet." Sean looked quite pleased with himself. "And lastly, have you ever gotten on the wrong side of Dr. Scott; risking my existence is not my idea of a good time."

Tom lowered his head into his hand in order to hold in the laughter and his pride. Tom couldn't hold it in; he had to laugh. Sean could be quite a comedian when he wanted to be, and he heard Slattery coughing behind him, covering his own laughter.

"Get out of here, Midshipman," Tom said. "I think we have all we need from you. Get back to studying."

"Yes, sir," Sean replied. "Commander Slattery." He stood, saluted them both and hurried out of the room.

"Smart ass," Slattery chuckled after the door closed.

"He transformed his nerves into a comedy routine. That's a first," Tom laughed out-loud. "It is a valid point. Why would anybody hit somebody over the head with a hammer, and if they did, wouldn't they have blood stains at the very least. Not the best way to kill somebody no matter how loathsome."

"They could carry an extra pair of clothes with them so they could change."

"Yes, but wouldn't that be kind of risky. Rachel does get up and go to her lab at odd times. What if she'd walked in on them, or if Beatrice had."

"We'd probably have another corpse." Tom concluded shuttering. "It's bad enough that we've got a murderer onboard, but he killed the worst of us. What if he killed someone we truly cared about." Tom was well aware that everyone had hated Sorenson including the two of them.

"We've got to find the murderer so that we can stop them. I'm hoping this was a one off, but if it's not, everyone is in danger." The laughter was gone from Slattery's voice.

"Back to interviewing people then." Tom also sobered. "I just hope this is a one-off, too."

* * *

Colour Sergeant Kindar Swain stared in the small mirror in his quarters. At 33, he felt his physique and stature was excellent. He was a lady's man; that's what he told fellow crew members. He refrained from using his man prowess; however, and limited his bragging to jocular rants delivered under his breath at passing female crew. Looking in the mirror, he was sure that women were swooning, albeit softly because there was a rigid command system in place. He had arrived on the Nathan James as part of a contingent of reassigns through Naval Command and the interchanges.

Looking at the ragged transfers who accompanied him, he held enough rank through the English naval system to be assigned the American rank of Chief Petty Officer, well, almost. He took liberties and walked with the briskness and efficiency instilled in all officers of His Magesty's service. He brushed his mustache, not for the first time that morning and gave himself the once over looking for nits. He would never let one of those pesky flakes or slivers of paper ruin his overall look. They were sloppy, and he might be many things, but he wasn't sloppy. Not ever. Not in his work, not in communication. He prided himself on being clear and concise in every conversation, even his bragging. He knew if he looked, he would see that his cut to the chase approach was refreshing.

Lieutenant Kara Foster came under his spell, and he had tipped his cover, asked her how her morning was going, then moved in for the date question. Just a coffee, nothing special, and with equal efficiency, she had turned him down. At first he had been a bit miffed. Women simply didn't turn him down; at least, that was the way it went on his former ship, the HMS Montgomery. When he asked, women broke the "no fraternization" rule with ease. Just a chance to be with him was more than enough to bolster their sails.

Foster was an odd duck, Swain surmised. Definitely not British. He then turned his eye to a true English woman, someone who would understand the intricacies of a true man's advances. Women come in all makes and models; he supposed that Foster was an American, rude and inconsiderate. The fact that she seemed to have some connection to Lieutenant Daniel Green, meant little or nothing in the overall scheme of things. That was a mere crush, easy to distract and even easier to get her to forget. The fact that she didn't seem to, he could only chalk up to her being a really strange woman.

Doctor Scott was a true English woman. She would understand the subtleties of English seduction and come right along with the program. He had been invited to the Captain's mess that evening, and he planned to make his move there. Of course, he would be prim and proper in the Captain's presence, but Chandler was an American and gauche was his middle name. He wouldn't see the subtle seductive moves, but Scott would recognize them straight away. They could meet later and talk, perhaps over tea, and he could carefully lay out what wonderful things he wanted to do to her.

After giving her a chance to look at his magnificent form — tall, medium build, blond hair and blue eyes with a casual "come hither" smile. He knew he was beautiful, and soon she would too. Swain had also perused the enlisted class, stopping on the exotic, Maori woman who worked in engineering. He tended towards dark haired women, and her naturally exotic look got his cylinders chugging. If Doctor Scott was odd like Foster, surely the Maori woman would come many times to his ministrations. She would gladly break the rules to be hot, sweaty and panting under his gentle remedies.

Kindar liked running scenes of him dominating women; it was fun and it was so true. He smoothed his blond hair, freshly cut by the ship's barber. That neanderthal had nearly messed up his cut, but after much screaming, he finally got it right.

"What did you say," Swain snapped at Bender the barber, as he headed towards the door. Brown skin and stupid as a sloth; that was Swain's assessment of the man.

"Nothing sir," Bender had replied. He kept his back towards the door, and Swain didn't see the grimace on Bender's face. When he was sure Swain was gone, he turned back to the door. "And, fuck you too, Colour Sergeant." He accompanied the grumble with a third finger salute, then started to clean up his area.

* * *

It was still early as Doctor Rachel Scott hurried towards her lab. She had wound up having a wonderful time with her love, Thomas Chandler, as they talked and teased their way towards makeup sex. Can you say heaven? Tom had taken his guilt over last night and channeled it into full on, sweet lovemaking that left her smiling and loving him all the more.

After he had left, she realized that they had picked up each confetti flower and acted upon its advice. He had kissed her so much, it went from sweet to ticklish to lusty to sweet again. She wanted to repeat the whole thing that evening, and prepared herself for another long day in the lab. Maybe his would stop by; maybe he'd invite her to lunch — maybe he'd be lunch. She wanted to reciprocate much more than he'd allowed her earlier.

Either way, now she was late, but even though she scolded her self, she couldn't get a full on self-rant going. Tom had just been too sweet and apologetic for her to have jumped up to leave in the middle. And besides, they had the cure, and dissemination was the only problem left. If they needed to hand it out by hand; damnit, they still had the cure.

Rachel rounded the corner hurrying the short corridor distance to her lab door, and stopped on a dime, slopping some of the tea she'd been carrying. Standing in the hallway was a man she didn't recognize. Rachel thought she knew most of the crew, but this man wasn't familiar. He turned hearing her approach and offered to help her carry her stuff, giving a hasty hello followed by an introduction. He was English by the sounds of things.

Because he was in full dress uniform, complete with metals, Rachel wasn't sure what rank he was. Clearly he was new to the Nathan James, where most of the crew wore the minimalist work blues most of the time, she had trouble figuring out where he fit in.

"You are the famous Doctor Rachel Scott, am I correct?"

"Yes." Rachel smiled politely.

"Allow me," Swain said, relieving Rachel of her cup of tea. "I figured since we are both Brits, I'd introduce myself."

"Aren't there eight other crewman from your ship?"

Swain raised his eyebrows. "Why yes, I wouldn't think you'd know that. I figure you stay in your lab."

"Not all the time. I get around." She went around him, surprised that he didn't exactly make way. They brushed each other, and Swain's smiled widened.

"Why, excuse me, I'm still getting used to these skinny corridors. On our vessel, we had about double the space as these American ships."

"I see," Rachel wondered why he was here. "Was there something you needed? For medical issues, you're in the wrong place. Doc Rios is the general doctor."

"Oh, no. I just wanted to meet the woman who found the cure to the Red Flu." He accompanied the statement with an embellished bow. "I wanted to say thank you." He gently took her free hand and placed a kiss lightly on top. It looked like he was kissing the Pope's ring, and in spite of her confusion, Rachel smiled.

"That's not necessary. I worked to save humanity." Rachel pulled her hand away and opened the door to her lab. "However, thank you for your kind words." Rachel started to close the door, but realized that he was following her into her lab.

"I thought we might get to know each other better, since we're both Brits," Swain reached above her closing the door. "Just a few minutes of your time. Perhaps we could share a spot of tea."

"I drink green tea," Rachel evaded making a date. Englishmen rarely drank green tea, at least she thought so. "I don't have time for chit-chat at this juncture. I have a lot of work to do."

"Perhaps when you're off duty, then. Not much of your time, just the lowdown on this ship. I'd prefer to hear the English view."

Rachel sighed. She didn't really want to waste what little time she had on drinking tea with a stranger, but in spite of her antisocial tendencies, he had been nothing but a gentleman. All he wanted was her views on how to navigate the eddies and shoals of getting around on an American ship. "You are, of course, coming to your welcome aboard dinner with Captain Chandler and the senior staff?"

"Yes, of course," Swain sighed as he talked. Rachel wasn't sure if he was looking forward to it or he was sighing, because he was stuck going. She continued ignoring the sigh. "We could have tea afterwards, and I could tell you what little I know about the dynamics on this destroyer. I warn you, it won't be much."

Swain smiled showing all of his teeth which vaguely reminded Rachel of a shark just before a kill. It was a fleeting image, but it gave her a shiver. You can't make judgments on looks alone, so she pushed the impression aside.

"Perfect. I appreciate your help." Swain stepped away from her towards the door. "Until then, Madam. I await your advices and perceptions." He bowed elaborately and took his leave, the lab door swishing shut behind him.

 _Now that was strange. He is a strange man._ Bowing and kissing my hand like a lord with a lady of about 300 years ago.

* * *

Swain had quite a thing about the English, something she didn't share with the exception of her favorite cup of tea. She had lived all over the world, so she had no real place to call home; she had worked for the CDC for a while, so she figured she could all the Southern states of the United States home, although she had lived equally long in other places. If this encounter with Mr. Swain was any indicator, it would be a bizarre cup of tea they shared. Rachel would do her best to explain the vagaries of being on an American vessel.

Thomas Chandler looked over the gathering of officers at the welcome dinner for officers. He was going to speak to the crewman as was protocol. Tom pushed those boundaries in welcoming new members on his ship especially under these trying times. At his right sat Rachel, Tex, Chief Petty Officer Jeter and Commander Garnet. On his left were Commander Slattery, the new Lt. Jg, two Ensigns and the new Chief Petty officer Kindar Swain. It was quite a crowd, and the Chief cooks assistants were delivering the dinners, condiments and dinner rolls. It was orderly chaos as the attendees settled in for a nice evening.

When everyone was served, Tom raised his water glass and wished all of the recruits a hearty welcome. "We are all part of one group now, but that's been true before the Red Flu. We are not the English or the Americans; we are also global citizens, and as such, we are officers and crewmen of the world. Thanks to this deadly pandemic, we know now more than ever the importance of putting aside our boundaries and work together for all of us and the world." He heard a soft snort, but looking around, he couldn't tell who had done it.

Everyone seemed to be concurring, smiling at each other, so Tom let it go as dinner was starting. He gave a quick glance in Rachel's direction, and as their glaze connected for a moment, he felt her warmth and love. It made his smile a little bigger. God, he adored that woman. His gaze drifted away from Rachel to the others at the table.

As dinner was winding down, Tom started the conversation again, a tell me a little about yourself session, starting with the two Ensigns. According to their files, they were both 22, and they looked so much alike, they could be brothers. Each sported a head of curly, dark hair, cut short, thin and about 5'10'. The first ensign was named Beamley, Timothy Beamley, and he was in the CIC on the other ship. He spoke three languages — German, French and English. He hoped to get back into the CIC. The second Ensign, Michael Klimezcko wanted to work anywhere needed. He was just out of the Academy, he explained, and still hadn't pinned his hopes on any one job yet. He figured the Bridge was good, as that's where he was stationed on his last ship.

"But I'm not sure, Captain." he concluded softly. Another young man with confidence issues thought Tom as he watched them. Beamley was much like his name, happy and confident. You would expect Klimezcko to be another winner personality since the two seemed so close together, but such was not the case." Making a note of that, he moved on to Lieutenant j.g. George Brentwood of the house of Brentwood in Yorkshire. He inclined his head with a smile.

"But most people just call me Too Tall," he laughed and stood up. He was almost seven feet, and Tom made note to check his file. "Helicopter pilot. And before you ask," he said retaking his seat, "I can wrap my tall, skinny frame into any helicopter made. And, I will go anywhere at anytime to rescue anybody in trouble."

"Okay," Slattery laughed. "Looks like we've got a hotdog among us." Everyone started laughing, everyone Tom noticed except the new Chief Petty Officer; he almost looked angry.

Tom clinked his water class with his knife to regain everyone's attention. "So, moving on, tell me about yourself Chief." He indicated Swain, but his gaze carried back over his three new transfer. They had all stopped laughing, and their easy humor was replaced with wary to angry looks. Klimeczko's look was angry and Beamley looked unhappy. This was something to remember; Swain's shipmates don't like him.

"I am now a Chief Petty Officer on your ship, sir. On my ship, I was a Colour Sergeant, which I must admit, I like the ranking better on my old ship."

 _Great way to start off your introduction by insulting your new chain of command_ , Tom thought but didn't comment. One look in Mike's direction showed the telltales signs of a concurrence of thought — furrowed brow, lips pressed together thinly, wrinkled forehead.

"I was responsible for the crew under my command," Swain continued apparently oblivious to the people's reactions around him. "I ran a tight crew, and everyone knew their place. Like all of that Too Tall business; that wouldn't happen under my command, would it Lieutenant Brentwood? And Klimeczko shouldn't even be speaking." Brentwood said nothing, just looked at his hands sighing softly.

"Just a minute," Chief Petty Officer Jeter said, "we are trying to find out more about you, not about your command style nor whether you liked the lieutenant's humorous introduction. And why can't Klimeczko introduce himself? This is a welcome dinner."

"I will speak with each of them later," Swain continued.

"Uh, no," Slattery interrupted. "If there's any "speaking to crew" on this ship, that's my area."

"In engineering, I do any speaking to my crew as well." Garnett put in.

"You haven't answered Mr. Jeter's question, Mr. Swain," Tom said. "Why is Mr. Klimeczko not allowed to speak. All of my crew are allowed to voice their opinions right down to the lowest ranked crew person."

Swain stared at him incredulous. "You seriously don't understand the hierarchy on an English ship of the line, sir."

"Ensigns name Klimeczko are not allowed to speak?" Rachel asked.

Swain looked at his lips tightly pressed together, eyebrows furrowed and a slight red tinge on his face.

"I'm Polish, miss," Klimeczko whispered. Slattery spluttered in the coffee he had started drinking.

"What did you say, Ensign?" Slattery slammed his cup on the table. Tom placed a calming hand on Slattery's arm. "This young man said he's not allowed to talk because he's Polish? Am I right, son?"

"Yes, sir," he continued to stare at his hands.

"Ensign, didn't you graduate top of your class?" Klimeczko shot the Captain a surprised glance.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Michael," Tom carefully put in his first name. This loosening of protocol had worked exceptionally well with Sean, another young man on his ship with confidence issues. "Stop staring at your hands and be proud. We don't care about your background or ethnicity of this ship. We care about the quality of your character and how well you work. And everybody is allowed to talk on our ship. In fact, we expect conversation. I don't care if you're a green alien from Vulcan."

He caught the ensign's smile, quickly suppressed. "Star Trek fan?"

Tom was rewarded with a full on smile from the ensign, "And Doctor Who."

"Figures, Tom, you should introduce him to Midshipman Dorsan." Slattery laughed.

"And what about the rest of my introduction?" Swain lobed the sentence into the middle of the lightening mood like a grenade into a school yard.

"I think we've learned enough from you for one evening," Tom said. "We don't adhere to any rules of classism, sexism, racism or any of that. You need to get those main tenets into your character, before we can continue with anything. Senior Chief Petty Officer Jeter will be who you are assigned to. We expect you to observe, take notes of the way things are done on the Nathan James. You are here to assist all of the crew, not just the ones who fit your narrow view of who and who is acceptable. I don't expect to ever hear someone taken to task, because they told a joke on off-duty hours, or the fact that someone is forbidden to do anything, because of their race or ethnicity. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." Swain looked furious, and if a gaze could kill, the Captain would be a cinder in his seat.

Everyone gathered their stuff to leave. Rachel remained seated, and Slattery tapped Klimeczko on the shoulder. "I'd like a word with you, Klimeczko." They left together heading towards Slattery's office.

"Doctor Scott, a word." Rachel smiled at him and remained seated. Swain looked at Rachel unsure as to what to do next.

"Something else you need, Chief? If not, you should go and speak with Sr. Chief Jeter about your duties and issues."

Swain huffed loudly giving Tom the answer he already suspected. Swain did not believe in equality and the fact that they were a global society. How many more people needed to die in order to put that aged policy to rest. There weren't enough human beings left on the planet to go Nationalist on anything.

"I had a meeting scheduled with Doctor Scott, just a few minutes."

"I think we should probably postpone that, don't you?" Rachel replied softly.

"No, now more than ever I need your perspective on this ship." There was an angry edge to his voice, as he acted like Captain Chandler wasn't in the room.

"You will need to reschedule, then," Tom interjected. He didn't like Swain at all. And, whatever he wanted to discuss with Rachel could have nothing to do with her work, because he knew nothing about her work.

As the door swung shut, Tom looked back at Rachel. "I don't think he likes me very much."

"What gave you your first clue?" Rachel laughed. "What did you expect after you and Mike tore his head off."

"I don't have time for racism, classism or sexism." Tom said, "and, that whole Polish thing was beyond the pail."

"Too Tall looks like he'll fit right in, and Mike took Klimeczko under his wing." Rachel smiled at him.

"Enough of all this. May I have a kiss hello?" He followed up with a long hug that left them both smiling. He settled on the edge of the table, "Just one kiss to get me until later.

Rachel lips were feather light as she kissed him, and his response was to lean in, wanting more. She finally pushed away, "Until latter, Chandler." Tom feigned disappointment, but couldn't keep the grin from breaking through.

"Please," he replied softly giving her his best "hurt puppy" look.

"You are so bad. Okay, one more, then I've got work to finish." She kissed him again this time pulling him in close. When they finished, she rubbed her hand down the front of his pants, feeling the bulge. "Can you save that until later, please. I do have work to finish."

"Yes, mam, I'm going to push some papers around until I lose my mind."

Rachel laughed disconnecting herself from his embrace. "I will work fast, love."

"I love you the way the sky loves birds with open arms and the freedom to adore you even when you're soaring, working or flying upwards to touch the sky." He gave her his lopsided grin, and she returned it with a grin and a happy gaze. "I just made that up."

"Okay, I will work doubly fast to get things set up for tomorrow's tests." She ran back, gave him a quick hug and then she was gone, and he was alone with his thoughts and feelings. Tom had nothing to do actually, but decided to exercise instead of pacing back and forth in his quarters or pushing administrative paperwork around.

* * *

 _Her only lines would be to admire his penis and beg for penetration, plead for her own seduction_. At least, that was the way Kindar Swain saw it. He had a lot of plans for Doctor Rachel Scott, unattached, unwed and soon to be his loving plaything. That whole thing in the Captain's private dining room had slowed him down, but he was sure he would have sex tonight with the good doctor. He had watched her return again and again to her lab after dinner, and he supposed he would seduce her there.

All he needed to do was get her started talking about the differences between his old ship and this new, non-sexist, non-racist heap of floating manure called the Nathan James and all the losers who commanded it. He had already learned that Jeter was a Godly man, the unofficial ship's chaplain. _Could the Captain assigning him to this pious idiot be any more demeaning. He was a Colour Sergeant, for God's sake._

It was quiet and deserted as he approached the doctor's lab. Swain knocked softly waiting for a response. The door opened after the third knock and Doctor Scott stood before him, white lab coat, brown hair slightly disheveled and ready for sex. He put on his best grin, and made a slight bow. "I thought we could have that little chat now." He said placing his hand on the lab door. Rachel backed up slightly, and Swain took that as an invitation to enter, once again brushing and nudging her out of the way to get in.

This time she looked perturbed. "I can't have that talk with you right now," she began.

"Please, it will only take a few minutes of your time. And considering how the Captain reacted to me earlier, I could use your advice, now more than ever." He gave his best "poor me" looked, lips downturned, gaze as sweet as he could make with hope thrown in for good measure. _No woman could resist his look._ "I'd like to correct that if I can. I'm not a bad guy; perhaps, I just misspoke."

Rachel audibly sighed. "I have a lot of work to do, before testing tomorrow. "

"I won't stay long," Swain replied quickly. He could see her feelings cascading across her face. Clearly, she was torn between her actual want of him and her duties to the experiments she was running. Swain reached out and touched her lightly on her shoulder, "I just need a few ways to come across as my true self. I know American protocol is much lax than on English ships."

Rachel sighed, sat down and offered him an adjacent stool. "That's just it, Mr. Swain, this is an American vessel. They don't go for racism or classism thing. Everyone here is equal as human beings, although different ranks bring different responsibilities."

Swain moved his stool closer and leaned into her personal space. "So, what you're saying is that even though Mr. Klimeczko is Polish, that makes no difference here. Alright, I got that." He gently placed his hand on her knee. "Now what do you mean by classism.

"I don't think it makes a difference anyway, Mr. .Swain." Rachel gently backed her chair up until his hand was no longer on her leg. "Mr. Brentwood, for example. He can make jokes during any off-duty hours. Just because he's from the House of Brentwood makes little to no difference on an American ship, and If he's a jokester that's fine, too. Both he and Klimeczko are considered by their rank and skill set. Nothing more."

Again, Swain leaned closer to Rachel who's eyes seem to register the move, and moved backwards on stool. "I only have a few more questions, if you don't mind."

Swain was only a few inches away from her now, and she took that moment to stand up, walk around him and towards the computer. Swain grabbed her, pulling her on his lap and planted a kiss on her mouth. In return, Rachel struggled to get free.

"Mr. Swain, I think it's time for you to leave." Rachel went to open the door, and Swain's hand pushed it back shut, blocking her escape. He then moved away from the door, and grabbed her again this time pulling her close and turning her toward him. _You should be swooning right about now. She knew his intentions were clear, to fuck you until you moan in ecstasy._

"Let me go, Mr. Swain," she screamed instead. Both of her arms were captured at her sides, as Swain leaned down and mashed his lips against her, his tongue pushing and probing at her tight lips. She finally managed to turn her head away. "Stop."

The struggle went on for a few minutes as Swain told her that he knew she wanted him; he had seen her looking at him lustfully over dinner, and that she had let him in. He pushed hard on her back, forcing her into a leaning position over one of her lab tables.

"I know a woman in heat, and that's definitely you. Wait tell you see what I have for you." He started fumbling with the belt on his pants. Soon, she would go from struggling to swooning at the monster size of his penis. All women had that reaction, and while it was expected for an English woman to fight a bit, that always gave way to the appreciation of the size of his genitalia.

"You are wrong Swain. I don't want to have sex with you; I never have; I never will. I have said no, now let me go."

Swain loosened his grip slightly to readjust her on the lab table. With her laying face down, he fumbled at her pants, yanking them down, and grabbing at her panties in turn.. He pushed all of her notes and experiments on to the floor, forcing her to lean over it.

"You will swoon when you see what I brought for you to admire, to suck and to beg me to penetrate you with."

In the split second that he loosened his grip on her to get his penis freed, she stomped on his foot with all of might, then kicked the lower part of his leg. Swain let out a shrill of pain, stumbling backwards, and by that time, she had wiggled around so that they were facing each other. Swain reached back in to grab her. "I know you want me." He needed to regain the romantic moment.

"Fuck you," she snarled as she rammed her knee as hard as she could into his private parts. He released her then, and she ran for the door, as he collapsed to the floor. He had never had a bitch do that too him. Fucking American influence. Rachel didn't swoon; she yelled at him and performed the oldest, nastiest trick in the book. She reacted like an American bitch, and not a proper English woman. As the pain in his loins calmed down, he sat up in the lab and kicked the door shut.

"Bitch," he shouted to an empty lab. _I will get you back, you whore._

* * *

Rachel ran away down the hallway, leaving the lab door open in her wake, running at full speed towards her quarters. She fell once jumping through one of the hatchways, hit her head seeing stars, but she got up and kept going. _What the hell just happened?_

She made it to her quarters before the uncontrollable shaking caught up with her. She had nearly been raped, but he said she wanted him. That was bullshit; she only wanted Tom, now and forever. So where in the world did he pick up signals that she was hot for him. She ran back through their previous conversations. Was it something she said or did? She was hot for Tom at dinner, but that was normal. Had Swain intercepted her loving looks and thought they were for him?

Rachel checked her door to make sure it was locked. What if she told Tom that Swain had just tried to rape her. Tom would kill him. Full stop. That was untenable, but she couldn't just let this go. Rachel stood in the middle of her living room, replaying conversations and the event in a disorderly, nearly incoherent way. She kept trying to tell herself that she was a scientist, but that line of thought led to the lab, and the lab led to Swain's assault which led to more questions

The knock at the door interrupted her reverie. "This is Mr. Swain, Doctor Scott. I want to apologize for earlier. I totally misread your signals. I am so sorry." Rachel stood completely still wishing Swain away. As the muffled apology drew to an end, Swain left.

 _Was it my fault? What do I tell Tom? Why can't I stop shaking?_

"I need a shower," she whispered to her empty quarters. She moved towards the bathroom, staring in the mirror at a good sized bluing and swelling on her forehead. How was she going to explain this? Her cheek and chest where he'd pushed her down on the lab table was also red, and there were grip marks on her arms.

She turned on the shower, waiting for it to warm. What if Tom thought she'd put herself out there with Swain? Well, that's totally ridiculous. Swain is a pompous asshole who thought all women would be attracted to his brutish charms.

 _I don't want to be nearly raped. That makes me weak, and I can't be weak_.

She stepped into the shower grateful it was hot and water stream steady. Maybe, she could just wash away the filth of Swain. Her lips were bruised and sensitive from the brutal kisses he'd forced upon her. Tom's first kiss had been so soft, so tender. Swain obviously knew neither of those approaches.

She washed herself fully, then came back into her quarters pulling on one of Tom's teeshirts. She loved them; she told him that it reminded her of him, and that even when he wasn't there, she could still be close.

What was she going to tell Tom tonight; he was expecting another evening of gentle lovemaking, but after Swain, she couldn't even contemplate getting close to anyone. What could she tell him? She had a headache; no, that would never work.

Instead, she left her door locked and climbed in the bed alone. As her head hit the pillow, tears came and the myriad of emotions that come from being violated swirling in her mind until she fell asleep.

Nightmares were her only companions that night, and by morning, she felt less like being seen by the world. Every time Rachel went near the door, she froze. She couldn't open the door, not yet, and as a result, she went back into her bedroom, climbed back in her bed and started to cry all over again until sleep claimed her. When she woke up again, she went out into the living area. Under her door were four notes: three from Tom and one from Swain. She tossed the Swain's apology in the trash, and looked at the three from Tom.

 _Hey baby, what's wrong? You sick? Hugs. Tom_

 _Rachel, are you alright? You missed breakfast. Love you. - Chandler_

 _Sweetie, I'm worried. You missed lunch and dinner. Let me in - Chandler_

What was she going to do? If she let Tom in she would probably break down and tell him everything. _He loves you, and you should tell him. But, he will kill Swain, and that would ruin his career. And Swain was apologizing up and down. Maybe, I inadvertently led him on. Oh come on, you said no and you asked him to leave, and then he didn't. No matter how many times he apologizes, he's a brute and possibly a rapist, too._

There was a soft knock at the door, and a muffled Tom Chandler calling her name. "Please let me in." Rachel stood still. The door, what if it was Swain and not Tom. It sounded like Tom, but how could she be sure.

"It's me, Chandler. Rach, I know your in there. Just let me know you're okay." Nobody knew she called him Chandler. No one, especially not Swain. _But what if I open the door and it's a trick_.

Rachel took a deep breath, forcing the terror back a little and opened the door just an inch and looked into a worried blue gaze. "I'm okay, just need some time," she began, but even as she spoke tears slipped silently down her cheeks. He reached his thumb in and wiped her cheek.

"You hungry?" he asked, ignoring her obvious distress.

"No."

"I bought you some ice cream, vanilla," he gave her a small grin, and pushed a small spoonful through the opening in the door. She ate it, but the tears didn't slow. "Want some more?"

She opened the door a little more and was rewarded with another spoonful of vanilla ice cream this time with grape jelly mixed in. She was afraid that if she opened the door all the way, Chandler would turn into Swain. Silly as it sounded to her logical brain, her limbic brain still held terrified sway even as she looked at the love of her life. Every time she opened the door a little more, Tom gave her ice cream with jelly. He didn't push like Swain had done, and slowly her terror receded in response.

Finally, the door was opened wide enough for Tom to slip in, and Rachel stepped back to allow him entry. He offered another spoonful of vanilla ice cream and some grape jelly. "You English have some funny ways," he chuckled hoping to get a laugh in return. Instead, he got a torrent of tears followed by full on sobbing. The word English was all Swain talked about. _Was that why he felt he could do that to me?_ The pain in her chest was intense, breath catching. She felt like she was going to pass out, and she fought the feeling of slipping back into the dark.

Rachel lectured herself — you are a strong woman; you can handle this — as the pain increased spreading across her body. She bent over like somebody had punched her in the stomach, feeling herself sinking towards the ground pushed lower by the weight of her trauma.

Tom picked her up like he did when she was sick and sat on the sofa with her firmly planted in his lap as she sobbed. As Rachel tried to choke the words out, Tom shushed her, telling her everything would be alright, and that they could talk after she'd cried all the pain out. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I can't go outside," Rachel finally choked. "Maybe, it was my fault." Then she was consumed by another round of sobbing.

"What was your fault," Tom asked softly rubbing one hand up and down her back. "You can go anywhere you want."

"Not safe," Rachel whispered.

"I will make it safe."

"He apologized, said it was my fault; Maybe, I was looking at you, and he misunderstood." Her throat closed as tears fell making her silent. After a few minutes of just sitting there together, she regained some measure of control.

"He hurt you." Tom whispered, continuing to hold her, his voice calm, tight, coiled like a snake ready to spring. She knew what he was thinking.

"You will kill him," she finally said. _There it was out there._ "ruin your career."

"I won't kill him, as a matter of fact, I will recuse myself and give it to Mike."

"Promise?"

"You have my word. As much as I want rip whoever hurt you limb from limb, I promise I won't. And, you know someone once told me that breaking a promise to you might get me killed. I'm not into risking my life."

Rachel began to relax and her crying eased.

'Want some more ice cream?" he offered another spoonful with grape jelly mixed in. She ate it and sighed leaning on Tom again.

"I wet your shirt." It was an old joke between the two of them.

"Extra absorbent. No worries." He resettled on the sofa, pulling her closer. "May I get a name, so that I can tell Mike?"

"You promise to recuse yourself." Rachel began to cry again; the mere mention of the man brought back the pain and now with it came a wave of anger.

"Yes, because I wouldn't make a very objective investigator." Tom was saying.

"Mike won't ask you why?"

Tom chuckled. "I'm pretty sure he already knows why I'd be a lousy investigator."

"I want to kill him; I wish I had killed him." Rachel blurted out, her face growing red, the rage she felt spilling out of her.. "Apologies, my ass. I said no; I asked him to leave. Maybe, I should have stomped on his balls from the outset; then, none of this would've happened, because he'd be writhing around my lab begging me to stop. Bastard."

Tom looked glad for her anger; he knew Rachel was a fighter. Better she fight than give in to despair, although he was there for anything that came out.

"So, who's the bastard? Do I get a name?"

"Fucking "I'm an English racist, sexist, and slimy, slug of a man" Kindar Swain," Rachel whispered through grit teeth. "He thought he was seducing me, but all he did was violate and hurt me."

"Did he —" Tom stopped. As much as he wanted to know everything, he also knew that if that answer was yes, his career would be ruined, recusal be damned.. Hell, the fact that he had hurt her put the recusal on shaky ground

"Tried, but not successful." Rachel finished his sentence.

"That's why you have grab bruises on your arms, a bruise on your cheek and a lump on your head." Tom was nothing if not observant. Rachel still saw the anger in his gaze, the look of a man who wanted to punch someone again and again until that person was dead. The muscles in his face were tight, and his lips were pressed together into a thin line. His upper lip was fashioned as one staring at a pile of manure, just a light raise but enough to telegraph his thoughts on Swain.

"You promised," Rachel said.

"And I will keep my promise. I won't kill him although I care more about you than my Navy career." Tom'a voice had dropped to a whisper, tight, coiled with tension. His hand continued to massage her back.

"All that self defense training with Sean worked." Rachel changed the subject, rubbing his arm trying to relax him.

"I think I'll assign Sean to be your bodyguard until all of this is settled, okay?"

"What about his studying?"

"Sean can study in your lab, can't he?"

"Yes, he already shows up sometimes."

"I'll talk to him and set it up."

"I kicked him in the leg and in his private parts. That's how I got away. Sean's self defense training. Never thought I'd need it on the Nathan James."

Tom didn't reply, just continued running his hand up and down her back and feeding her ice cream until she fell asleep. That night the nightmares came again — her fighting, Swain's words, his lips forcibly kissing her. This time, however, every time Rachel came close to consciousness terrified and clawing for release and safety, she felt Tom holding her, heard his soft rumble of everything would be okay, and the dark, painful terror moved away.

"We will get through this together, baby." It was the last thing she heard Tom whisper in her ear before sleep overtook her once more.


	3. Chapter 3 - Stay With Me

Rachel awoke stretching to her full length in the bed. The covers were up to her neck with her raggedy, stuffed bunny tucked in beside her, and in the soft, comfy and warm confines of her bed, she momentarily forgot what had happened the previous evening. Only for a moment. Listening before getting out of the bed, she heard Tom talking in the other room. The previous evening, Tom had gently coaxed her to allow him to take pictures of her injuries — bruises, marks and the like. In spite of her best efforts, last night all she'd done was cry when he took the pictures. He was quick and kind, getting through the process with a minimum of fuss.

This morning the other voice in the outside room was Mike Slattery talking in hushed tones with Tom. Rachel decided to stay in the bed, not wanting to face Mike. This morning her feelings were a jumble. She would be forever grateful to Tom for handling this; she knew she had to get her confidence back, because she wasn't some simpering imbecile to be rescued. There was that rage again; Rachel promised to practice more with Sean, and pledged never work alone in the lab again. Rachel had never felt threatened on the Nathan James, but that feeling of safety had been shattered with Swain's attack.

 _We are all like a family._ Tom's words drifted back through her mind. That statement didn't apply to Kindar Swain. Swain was a transfer and definitely not part of that group of people she come to know like family and trust, people who had shown her nothing but kindness and inclusion.

Swain was a monster who came from the outside, who boarded the Nathan James pouring his toxic mix of nationalism and narcissistic overreach. He had been surprised that Rachel didn't want him, astounded that his brutal, self focussed approach hadn't swept her off her feet. In spite of obvious moves to the contrary, he kept pushing in spite of her firm responses in the negative. Rachel wondered if that was how he operated on his last ship.

Tom seemed to be wrapping up with Mike, and she heard another knock on her door. It was strange being this disconnected from the action going around her, but again, the knot in the pit of her stomach tightened whenever she thought about going out to speak with anybody. Rachel knew she couldn't stay alone forever, but right now she preferred a minimum of interaction.

She heard Tom giving instructions to someone, then she heard Sean's voice agreeing. He didn't ask very many questions as was Sean's way, and Tom's instructions were very abbreviated. Rachel did hear Sean ask what happened, and Tom's response was comforting.

"Leave it alone, and if Rachel chooses to share things with you, then listen and keep your mouth shut with others. Not that I have to worry about you in that regard."

Sean's response was his typical "Ok." She heard him leave, and knew that he would never ask her anything unless she chose to talk. The door opened again and Beatrice stepped in. Tom gave her similar instructions as he did with Sean, and she agreed and left.

After the door closed for the last time, Tom stuck his head into her bedroom. When he saw she was awake, he gave her a big smile. "I thought you might wake up; I talked as quietly as I could. Are you hungry?"

"Not that much," Rachel answered. Her body hurt; in fact, she hurt all over even in places where the conflict hadn't happened. In the fight against Swain, she had used all the strength in her body, boosted by adrenaline from the terror that had settled into anxiety this morning.

"I'll just get Bacon to whip you up some eggs and a cup of tea. I'll send Sean to get them while I'm here."

"Where's Sean?"

"Outside. He's your bodyguard and will go with you everywhere and anywhere until we get this settled."

Rachel wondered what the phrase "until we get this settled' meant but didn't ask.

"You have to eat, Rach," Tom seemed determined, so she relented and asked for a muffin instead with her tea. "I know you probably are not going to like this, but Doc Rios and his nurse are going to come by to take pictures and examine you. We need third party corroboration."

"I need a shower," Rachel stood suddenly walking towards the bathroom. She did not response to Tom's last statements, but jumped and swung around ready to attack when he took her risk.

"Don't shower again until after the examination."

"I need a friggin' shower," Rachel said, tears welling up again in her eyes. "Aren't your damn pictures enough?

Tom ignored the rage and pain in her voice. "We need a third party, professional examination that's documented. It won't take long, and he's bringing his nurse for any help you might need." He didn't say what kind of assistance she might need, and that just made her angrier.

"This is so bolluxed up. I don't want to do this."

"This is the last physical examination you'll need."

"And then?" Do I go out and watch everybody watch me?"

"No one is going to be watching you, because nobody knows except Mike, Doc Rios and his nurse. And his nurse is very discreet, and Doc is, well, a doctor so he's sworn to keep your business private."

"Sean?" Rachel threw his name out there; she just felt like fighting.

"Sean? First, he doesn't know what happened to you, just that you need his body guarding services. He will only know what you tell him. Second, even if Sean knew everything, he would never say anything or stare at you with anything but adoration and respect."

Tom ordered the muffin and tea then returned to sit with her on the sofa.

"I'd like to throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt," Rachel said after a pause and went back into her bedroom to rummage through a small pile of clean clothes on the floor. Rachel used to live from two piles of clothes which had caused much humor on Tom's part.

Rachel had come to her quarters to find all of her clean clothes neatly put away in the drawers and organized. Her dirty clothes were in three laundry bags in the corner: whites, mixed colors and darks. The small pile of clean clothes on the floor were there, Tom told her, to make her feel less Navy, although he continued to put most of her clothes away. He told her it was just a habit, and they constantly laughed about her brilliant mind that couldn't take time to use drawers.

Smiling, she gathered up the small pile. It was a pair of jeans, a shirt, bra and panties, and a pair of socks, rolled Navy style. It was a nice memory, and for a little while, she was less conflicted and a bit relaxed. When she came out of her bedroom, Sean was delivering the muffin and tea.

"Hi Rachel," he said. His gaze slowed at the bruise on her forehead, but he looked away before it made her feel uncomfortable. Whatever questions he had, he kept to himself. He gave her a small smile and a wave and then he was gone.

Tom was relaxed, leaning back, one arm across the sofa back. Rachel settled in next to him, picking at the muffin. "You are so beautiful," she heard him say, and he kissed her on the cheek.

"I love you so much," Rachel responded, leaning on him. "I know I'm a bit grouchy, but —"

"I love you grouchy or happy. I have big shoulders, and my heart and my soul are all yours anyway." Tom paused, then said, "That includes my lips, arms, legs and all the other parts." They both laughed. Another knock at the door ended that quiet interlude, and Rachel sat up as Tom went to open the door. She recognized Doc Rios and his nurse, Ensign Willis.

"Let me just document your bruises," Doc Rios was very gentle in both demeanor and tone. "Because there wasn't any actual penetration, we don't need to do a full exam. Just show me the areas that are bruised." Tom said he would step outside, which she thought was ludicrous, and she almost asked him to stay. This secret relationship wasn't that much of a secret, although who knew what she didn't know.

Tom, ever the gentleman, stepped into the hallway and closed the door. Using a diagram of a human body, front and back view, the doctor went all over her body as his nurse made notations on the chart. They moved so quickly and gently that she didn't have much time to get anxious. At the end of the examination, Rios asked a quick series of questions, then said he was done.

"Do you need anything," Rios asked as he packed up his bag. "Do you have any questions?"

"No." Rachel replied. "No questions."

"Then, that's it. We are done, Doctor Scott." He patted her on the shoulder, and prepared to leave.

"Thank you, Doctor." Rios smiled and left, nurse in tow, nodding at the Captain and Sean in the hallway. Tom came back into the room and sat down.

"Don't you have work to do?" Rachel asked, hoping he wouldn't leave. On the one hand, he was the captain of a very large destroyer with a mission that was taking from England to pick up more equipment and the transfers including Swain. On the other hand, she felt safe in his presence.

"You are my work today," Tom replied smiling at her. "Now that all of the official stuff is done with you and underway by Mike, we have the day to ourself."

"I should get back to my lab," Rachel said half-heartedly.

"No, it's a crime scene. And you don't need to go in there until everything is cleaned up. After Mike gets all that he needs, Beatrice and Sean are going to clean up, while you and me wander around the ship."

"I should help them," Rachel said.

"No, you're on sick leave until further notice."

Rachel felt a bit miffed, but in an amused sort of way. Only Tom Chandler could order her around; lesser men would be handed their head. "Humpf, you are getting a bit pushy, Chandler."

He grinned at her but said nothing.

B-B-B

* * *

Kindar Swain opened the door to his quarters to be confronted by Mike Slattery. His commanding officer was half-a-head taller than he was, with a frowning countenance that lended credence to his intimidating presence. Gone was the jovial, smiling commander from the welcome dinner.

"A word, Mr. Swain," Mike said silencing Swain before he could launch into explanation mode. He was stopped mid-denial by a hand in his face, and Slattery's demand that they step back into his quarters to continue the discussion. Swain realized that the demand was non-negotiable and backed up in the face of Slattery's movement towards him.

"What can I help you with, Commander," Swain gave him a half smile trying to offset the grim, angry features of Slattery, a folder gripped in his hand.. "Would you like to sit down?"

"No. Let's cut to the chase. I am here about the Doctor Rachel Scott's alleged attack perpetrated by you last night in her laboratory. I want to get your side of story." Swain's genitals were still sore and darkly bruised from the previous night. In the last few hours, he had come up with two stories: 1.) she invited him in, and at the last minute changed her mind, and 2.) she invited him into her lab, was caught up in the swell of lust between them. She hadn't had sex in a while, and she liked things rough. It was his word against hers, and in rape cases there were always gray areas to exploit.

Swain decided to go with story number two. As he told the story, he watched Slattery's reaction which he hoped to read so he could tweak his lie as he went. Slattery's face was unreadable with the exception of the redness, narrowed eyes and lips pressed tightly together. One of his fists was balled up with the other one clutching a folder. However, he came in looking like that, and since his look didn't change, Swain thought he was doing well with his lie.

"You know how some women like things a little rough, right? English women are like that," he threw in for good measure.

"I see," Slattery said after a moment. He opened the folder, and wrote down some notes. Swain wasn't sure if Slattery believed him or not; he just stood writing notes which Swain couldn't see unless he leaned over and was obvious.

"So, you're saying that this was consensual."

Swain raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth in mock surprise, "Is she saying it wasn't?"

"Answer the question."

"Well, things got rough, but she asked for it. She invited me into her lab, and the reasons were obvious."

"At any time did she say 'no' or 'stop'?" Slattery asked.

"No, not once. Rachel enjoyed it. Her sex life has been pretty much nil on this ship. She was glad to share some intimacy with another Englishman."

"So, Doctor Rachel Scott invited you into her lab, asked you to have rough sex with her, because she hasn't been intimate with anyone in a long time and she's English, and you complied."

Swain thought for a moment. His story was consistent; he had used the same story successfully on the Montgomery. "Yes."

"Okay," Slattery said, putting his notes down on Swain's desk. "I need to conduct an examination which will be performed by Doc Rios . Slattery stepped back, opened the door and ushered Rios and his nurse into Swain's room. Swain was aghast as Slattery pulled out a small camera, and looked poised to take snapshots.

"Is this really necessary?" Swain's voice went up an octave, and real anger escaped his carefully constructed, friendly facade. "I would think my word would be enough." It had been enough on the Montgomery, but his complainant had only been a crewman, a woman with almost no influence on the ship.

"On this ship, we collect evidence as well as stories from the people involved."

Rios interjected, "I need you to take off your shirt and teeshirt first. Then we'll move to the bottom half."

"I think this is a bit of overkill because of some rough sex," Swain grumbled but he removed his shirt and teeshirt. "I even apologized to her if it was too rough."

Slattery made another note in his folder. "You didn't tell me that before," he said quietly.

Swain thought that might be a mistake, but he was committed to the story now. He hadn't even bothered to apologize to the crewman on the Montgomery. But at least that covered the paper trail and gave a reason for him apologizing.

Rios finished with Swain's upper torso, waited while Slattery snapped a number of pictures, then asked Swain to take off his pants and undershorts. "This is mortifying, and there's a lady in here, too. We don't do this on British ships."

"This is an American ship and we do things differently," Slattery's tone was sarcastic. Swain saw any hope of camaraderie drying up with each word from Slattery. He complied slowly. He knew that while his upper torso was in pretty good shape, the lower half of him still showed the bruises from last night's encounter.

Rios carefully touched his genitals, "Penis and scrotum are bruised and swollen. Right leg has a large bruise, and the right foot is also bruised. Slattery snapped pictures as Rios talked to his nurse. "Please turn around." He continued to make notations of the rest of Swain's lower body. "There is a bruise on the right arm; looks like you were bit?"

"Oh, that's ridiculous, "Swain protested. "Who would have bit me?"

"Maybe, that was part of the rough sex you were speaking of earlier," Slattery said the sentence slowly. Swain could feel the sarcasm dripping from Slattery's tone.

"You may redress," Rios said. Swain noted that neither he nor his nurse looked at him. Not a good sign; they must be friends with Rachel. This might be harder than he first thought. Maybe, he should have gone with story one, but this one had worked so well on his old ship.

"Well, is that all?" Swain said. He was feeling a bit anxious at the way this was going, but he knew that all he had to do was stick to his story. It essentially came down to his word against hers, and he had an impeccable record. What did she have.

"That's all we'll need from you now, Mr. Swain," Slattery said opening the door to let Doc Rios and his nurse out. Swain noted that Rios and Slattery's eyes met for just a moment, then Rios nodded, turned and left. Slattery left closing the door behind him, and Swain noted that he didn't say goodbye.

 _This might be a bit tougher than I first thought._

B-B-B

* * *

Rachel felt a lot more relaxed than she did that morning. Tom had that effect on her, and she was glad that he had stayed. They were sitting together on the sofa, listening to some of her music recordings that she had carried around the world on her iPhone. She had small speakers that she connected to it, and it filled the room with the likes of Yanni, Private Music and John Tesh.

They had been talking about anything and everything except last night. Tom kissed her lightly on the cheek for the third time that morning, and each time he did it, she was struck by how gentle he was and how all of gestures were filled with love for her. He had told her he adored her; that was something no other man had ever said, and the words set off such feelings of love and reciprocal adoration that it almost cancelled out the bad feelings of Swain . . . Almost.

Rachel sat up, hesitating then she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. It was the first time she had kissed him since Swain. She noticed that he barely moved, responding to her kiss with equal pressure. When it ended, he smiled at her.

"Can we do that again?" Tom asked, a small smile gracing his lips. "You know I live for your kisses."

She chuckled, "Don't get corny."

"I was born corny, and that's the truth. It's a really nice feeling you give me with your kisses. Must be love."

She leaned forward and kissed him again; this time lasting longer but just as gentle as the last one. "My lips are sore, bruised I think."

"Figured."

Rachel kissed him again.

"Above and beyond."

"I love kissing you, Chandler." Rachel laughed at his statement. It felt good to laugh again, and while it didn't dismiss her anxious feelings, it did deflect a lot of it. Rachel settled back leaning on his chest again listening to Yanni, both relaxed.

There was a light knock on the door, and Tom stood to answer it. Mike Slattery stood in the hallway. "May I have a few moments of your time, Tom?" Slattery asked stepping out into the hallway.

"Sure, Mike," Tom replied giving Rachel a small wave, before stepping into the hallway and the door closing. All the feelings of dread and anxiety crept into her mood like a storm moving in on land. What did Mike need to speak to Tom about that required secrecy. After about 10 minutes, the door opened and Tom reentered her quarters. Gone was the relaxed, loving look he'd worn a few minutes earlier. In it's place was an angry Tom Chandler.

"Mike needs to speak with you alone," Tom said. Slattery came in behind him. "I'm going to step into the hallway, to give you privacy. Her gaze followed Tom's exiting form, then it slid over to Slattery.

"Okay, what do you need to talk about?" Rachel's palms started sweating, and she wiped them dry on her jeans. She reached for her iPod hitting stop. The absence of music and talking made her feel even more creeped out.

"I have some questions to ask as the investigator on this case, okay?"

"Alright."

"Please know that I'm asking these questions as the investigator of the alleged attempt rape in your lab, okay?" Mike sat on the sofa next to her and opened his folder of notes.

"Okay."

"On the night of the incident, did you invite Kindar Swain into your laboratory?"

"Not exactly. He kind of pushed and cajoled his way into my lab."

"However, you relented and let him enter your lab?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you what he wanted?

"He wanted my perspective on operating on an American destroyer, and how he could straighten out the debacle at the welcome dinner earlier."

"He was on a fact finding mission, then."

"Yes. He said he wanted an English perspective from someone who had been on the Nathan James for a while. I was the only one who qualified."

Mike made a few notes, then looked back at Rachel, a slight smile on his lips. "Okay, you're doing just fine."

"To your knowledge, did you encourage Mr. Swain in any way to think that you were interested in having a sexual relationship with him?"

"No!" Rachel couldn't even contemplate the question.

Mike made a couple quick notes then plowed on. "Do you like, uh, rough sex?"

That made Rachel laugh. "You mean like '50 Shades of Grey' rough sex?"

It was Mike's turn to blush. "Uh, yeah, something like that."

"No, I prefer sweet, loving sex where both parties come out undamaged."

"Have you ever had rough sex?" Mike continued to look at his notes clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter.

"No, never. It's not my cup of tea."

"Okay, that's enough on that. Tom told me that you did a number of self defense moves to get free of Mr. Swain. Would you describe them, if you can?"

Thinking of the description brought tears to her eyes, but she took a deep breath before continuing. _Now is not the time to go all weak on this._ "I stomped on his right foot as hard as I could, kicked him as hard as I could in his right lower leg, then kneed him in his genitals. I also scratched his left arm, bit him on the other arm, and pushed and shoved to get him off me. Before that I asked him to leave, when he first grabbed me around the waist to try and get me in his lap."

Rachel stopped taking another deep breath. "His moves went from acceptable to unacceptable very quickly. He started invading my personal space as he asked the questions, and made the grab to get me in his lap when I stood up to put distance between us." In spite of her resolve, a single tear escaped her rolling down her cheek, followed by another one.

"Do you need a break?" Slattery was looking around for some tissues. Rachel got off the sofa and went into the bathroom to get some toilet tissues, and wiped the tears off her cheeks before returning to the sofa.

"Why don't we move on from that." Mike said.

"Okay."

"Now, these couple of questions are strictly private. Only you and me will know the answers to them unless it's absolutely necessary. Okay?"

Rachel nodded in agreement. What about this interview could be considered public?

Mike kept looking at his notes and cleared his throat a couple times before proceeding. "Are you in an intimate relationship with anyone on the Nathan James?" Rachel was surprised at the bluntness of the question. It had been an open secret amongst the senior staff for a couple months now. However, to be asked like this surprised her.

"Yes."

Mike cleared his throat again, continuing to look at his notes. "Who? I need a name, officially." He looked at her briefly, smiled then went back to looking at his notes.

"Thomas Chandler," Rachel replied trying not to laugh. Of all the senior staff, Mike had been the first one to figure it out besides Tex.

"That would be Captain Thomas Chandler, commander of the Nathan James."

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Four months or so."

Slattery looked like he didn't want to ask the next question face to face, but he was conflicted. He knew that to be thorough he had to ask. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "When was the last time you and Tom had intimate relations?"

"Is all this really necessary?" Rachel asked, chuckling. "It's not like you haven't already figured this out."

"Officially, I need to ask you these questions. What I know personally doesn't matter for the record." Slattery worked not to laugh and failed into a cough and chuckle combination. "Personally, I've never cared how often and when you and Tom slept together." He gave her a cheeky smile, then returned to his notes.

"Two days ago."

"Do you two have rough sex?" Rachel started to laugh, first giggling then giving in to all out laughter.

"No," she chortled. "We have never had rough sex. It's not our thing, and that includes the sweet, kissey-poo, loving sex we had the other night."

"Can anybody corroborate your relationship?"

"Sean," Rachel replied.

"Why am I not surprised," Slattery laughed and made a final note in his folder then closed it. "I think I've got enough information for right now. And that last part with the kissey-poo was seriously too much information."

"I was just trying to be accurate." Rachel tried to look serious but failed miserably, breaking into a fit of giggles that washed away the anxiety of before.

Slattery rose to his feet. "Unofficially, Doctor, are you alright?"

"Yes. Tom has been quite helpful."

"He really loves you, you know. All of his friends can see it clear as day. When he looks at you, he telegraphs his love like a beacon. I'm happy for you two." Slattery wished her a good afternoon and switched places with Tom who was pacing in the hall.

B-B-B

* * *

He maintained a cool, disassociated connection with his targets. He preferred not to think of them at all, and when he did, he already saw them dead — walking bags of meat standing around waiting for the butcher to make them still. He was the butcher, and he'd already dispatched one sack of skin and bones, that vile, heap of a mass killer, Neils Sorenson. In truth, his demise did bring a certain amount of satisfaction.

In most cases, he considered himself a mere conduit. Everybody has to die sometime, and he considered murder as good a way to go as any other. No drawn out illnesses, no emotion ridden goodbyes. One minute they were meat bags walking around serene and oblivious, and in the next minute they were gone. It was simple, convenient and if done correctly, painless. That's the way Sorenson had gone. His next victim would be the same.

Why this guy needed to die wasn't his problem. How to dispatch him was the only thing that bothered him currently. He had received orders for this next victim, and although the guy appeared to be a good guy, well, that wasn't his problem either. He made no judgments, and in return, pleas for mercy were equally useless to him. Not that he got that many; he snuck up on his victims and dispatched them before they knew what happened, and before they could make any kind of plea. In a way, he considered himself a merciful killer. He worked fast and professionally; pain was kept to a minimum and death was quick.

Since boarding the Nathan James, his benefactor had only called for one victim, and now he was asking for another. While he got no joy from his job, he did pride himself on being professional, thorough and a perfectionist in his task. To the outside world he looked like any other crew member, but little did people know. His dark eyes had been called soulless and godless by his benefactor. He didn't mind the hyperbole. His benefactor really didn't know who he was dealing with, and that was fine. The less he knew the better for the jobs completed. His benefactor could call him a great white shark for all he cared. As long as at the end of the day, he delivered the opiates he liked and a bottle of alcohol for good measure.

Attached to this death order was a note — he needed to implicate Midshipman Sean Dorsan. There was no reason why given, and he didn't ask. He didn't care. He had only seen Dorsan twice since he boarded the Nathan James. Seemed like a likable enough boy; however, if his benefactor wanted him to look guilty, then so be it.

This time he would use a garrote another simple and highly effective tool in his arsenal. It would be easy to do; he just needed to watch his victim and find a place on this ship where he could dispatch him timely. That was one thing he disliked about his benefactor; he had no patience. One week at the most for completion of the assignment. Making Dorsan look guilty was another fact that might slow him down. He sighed. These little details made jobs cumbersome, and he hated cumbersome.

B-B-B

* * *

Rachel fell asleep leaning against Tom listening to music; her back, which had drawn up in spasms, now relaxed and her mind released from anxiety. Her dreams were a jumble of scenes with Tom — riding horses on the beach, a picnic in the park, living together with his two children in Virginia, laying on the beach under an umbrella sipping Coronas and staring out at the infinite ocean beyond.

There were also dark dreams where she was back in her lab fighting Swain, but each time those dreams came up, she felt Tom next to her running his hand softly over her hair, kissing her cheeks and telling her that things would be okay. Rachel would sink back into dreaming some of it fantasy, some of it reliving things they'd already experienced.

"You still adore me, Chandler?" Her words woke her up, and she stared at Tom's back sitting at her desk typing on his computer.

"Yes, I do, babe." He continued typing, and Rachel almost laughed.

"Then come kiss me."

That broke his concentration and Tom turned and looked at her. Seeing that she was awake, he closed his laptop, and came back to the sofa. "You've been sleeping and talking in your sleep. We've had some interesting conversations; you've just been full of questions."

"You're kidding."

"All kinds. Apparently, you wanted to ask me a lot of stuff, but haven't asked me while you were awake." He kissed her gently on the nose. "Plus, some nightmares."

"What kind of questions?" Rachel asked ignoring the reference to nightmares.

"I don't know if I should tell you," Tom responded kissing her again. "Might upset you." She saw that twinkle in his eye.

"Like what?" she asked, pushing on his chest slightly.

"Well, you asked me if I thought we had rough sex," Tom tried to look serious, then gave into laughter. "We had a whole discussion about that one."

"You're teasing me," she swiped his chest again in a mock hit. He laughed again.

"Don't worry, it wasn't anything to talk about. You were restless from point to point, a few times scared. Although one time you asked me if I like Corona. Not sure why you asked me that. You also talked a little on the dispersal method, but mostly you either smiled or mumbled that you love me which I liked."

"You been here the whole day?"

"Yep."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being you." Rachel leaned against him again. "I don't know how I would have to gotten through the past day without you."

"I am always here for you, no matter what, babe."

Rachel stretched out on the sofa resting her head in Tom's lap. He caressed her cheek, then ran his finger gently across her lips. She kissed them in turn. Rachel wondered, _were you and me ever strangers? At this juncture, I'm not sure we were. Is there an element that brings strong love, like a sunrise bursting across and banishing a grey predawn sky. It was a dawn much like the person I feel I am today, the person I was destined to be. Has it only been a few months? I would give up anything in the world for you; I would do anything to keep you safe. And, I know it is reciprocal in your words, actions, gentle looks you give me. Our interactions are obfuscation free. It is the warmth of your love which has forged our love, warmth after a lifetime of winter._

Rachel stretched and sighed.

"What are you thinking about?" Tom asked.

"You and me."

"What?"

"You are the greatest treasure in my life, you know."

"Awwww, you shouldn't say things like that."

Rachel leaned up and kissed him lightly on his lips whispering, "I only say it because it's true."

She saw his smile, his loving gaze in those oh-so-blue eyes and crawled to a seated position in his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him again, this time longer and more passionate. She wondered when she'd feel good enough to get into "non rough sex" with him. _Not yet,_ she thought, _still too much anxiety. But it's getting closer_. A few more kissing sessions, and she might relax enough to let him back in, although her bruises were a constant reminder of what had happened.

B-B-B

* * *

Crewman John Popek sat in the gym preparing to start his morning exercise. His shift afforded him a solid two hours to workout before he needed to shower, change and get ready for the day. He loved exercising even more when he could do it alone. No saluting, no interruption of his routine. Popek had designed his own routine, preferring extended reps and lighter weights working his way up to the heavier weights with ease. He added cardio on the treadmill and the heart pounding leaps from a standing position to the cubes that were half his size and positioned in front of him.

Popek felt that he was in good shape; he seldom boasted about it, but he did have some pride in his physique and levels of endurance. He had a six-pack which he maintained thru religious exercise. It made him a good guard; it also made him stronger than he looked. As a guard on the Nathan James, he liked to offer the people he guarded a sense of comfort that he was ready to handle any situation.

Switching from running on the treadmill to arm reps with weights, he was absorbed in his workout when another crewman walked into the exercise room. They exchanged nods, although Popek wondered who the new guy was. Before he asked, the other man went into the changing room, and Popek returned to his weightlifting. Single arm weights always worked best for him; he could concentrate of areas to achieve complete muscle exhaustion before moving to the next area.

Turning his back to the changing room door, Popek started on the other arm. He wondered idly where the other crewman had gone, but it wasn't enough curiosity for him to go and look. "16-17-18-what the hell?"

A black hood was pulled down over his head, and a second later, he felt agonizing pain around his neck. He struggled to free himself from the bag over his head and the rapidly tightening noose around his neck. _Why was this happening?_ He struggled, finally getting his hands around his back and gave a shove which loosened his grip. He twisted around and shoved his assailant's shoulders He pushed him backwards, the noose around his neck loosening and dropping to the floor.

Popek came to his feet, his hands fishing to get the bag off his head. He felt the attacker coming at him again, a body swiping and attempting to get the noose back around his neck. Failing again, the attacker backed away, then Popek heard the door to the outside open and his attacker was gone.

Pulling the bag off his head, he coughed and felt the moistness around his neck. _What the hell_ , he thought. Looking at the bag then the floor, he found and picked up a homemade bookmark filled with compressed writing on both sides. It looked like notes. Popek found his way to a mirror at the entrance to the changing room. His neck showed bruises and a cut line where the noose had been. There was also blood where the noose had gone through the skin. He gently rubbed his neck, then took the bag, the notes and walked towards the infirmary.

 _Was it the guy who came in after him?_ It had to be; no one else was there. _Why did he try and kill me?_ The only reason Popek was alive was because he was stronger than his attacker. _Thank God for weight lifting._

When Popek entered the infirmary, Rios was sitting at his desk sipping coffee. He looked up with a smile and a good morning which faded when he saw the crewman's neck. "What in the world happened to you?" Rios went to get the medical supplies to treat Popek's wounds.

"I think someone just tried to kill me, but I was stronger than they were." He sat on Rios' hospital bed. "They ran when I pushed them off me."

"Let me get Commander Slattery down here to talk with you." Did you see who attacked you?"

"Briefly, but I didn't recognize him, and I only caught a glimpse as he disappeared into the changing room. I also found this bookmark of notes on the floor, and I have no idea where this fits in."

Rios waited to clean and bandage Popek's neck and went to call Slattery. "We will need pictures of your injuries."

"I don't understand why anyone would want to kill me. I'm nobody important."

Rios smiled patting the crewman on the shoulder. "Neither do I. You're not a nobody; you're just an average guy going about your business."

"That's what I meant, and I don't have any enemies on this ship, although I've never seen that crewman before, not that I remember."

Commander Slattery took that moment to arrive and picked up the conversation. "Did he try to hang you?" Slattery examined the wounds carefully, snapping pictures with his tiny camera.

"No sir. He wrapped some kind of rope or wire around my neck and attempted to strangle me. As I told Doc, I never saw him before, and I pretty much know most of the crew."

"What about the new additions," Slattery asked. "The ones from England, do you know all of them."

"No sir. I don't." Slattery snapped pictures of Popek's neck and fingers where he tried to loosen the noose. "I don't look very strong; most folks think I'm skinnier than I actually am, but I lift weights and run. I think that's why I'm still alive. A weaker man would be dead."

Slattery made notes in a folder, and asked Doc Rios to make notes on his human chart. He looked very disturbed, Popek noted. His commander was usually jovial and easygoing as long as you worked as you were supposed to. This morning he looked like he hadn't gotten enough sleep, and the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "I'm going to talk to the Captain about this; he will probably want to speak with you."

"Yes, sir." Popek said, standing and saluting his superior officer. "I'm on shift shortly; I'd like to go and change.

"I'm assigning you a guard," Slattery held up his hand to stop any objections, "I don't want a repeat of this morning, and that's final." He went to the intercom and ordered another crewman, a friend of Popek's to come to the infirmary.

"At least he's a friend," Popek said. In actuality, most of the crewmen were his friends. In a ship this closed, it was hard not to get to know everybody. Popek was an affable kind of guy, so most folks onboard liked him.

"I'd like you to keep your mouth shut about this; just tell people you had an accident in the gym."

"Yes, sir," Popek paused looking at the bandages going around his neck, "although what could I say happened."

"You were using the ropes and got tangled up in them," Slattery provided the cover story. "While it's implausible, it is possible. And the guard is your friend, so you two are hanging out together."

"Can I tell him, sir?"

"Yes, but he needs to keep his mouth shut as well, until we get this whole business straightened out."

"Yes, sir." As if on queue, the other crewman showed up, looking from his friend to his commanding officer.

"You called for me?" Crewman Watson saluted as he spoke. Watson, unlike Popek, was burly with a barrel chest and the look of someone who could smash you into the ground without breaking a sweat. Tall like Slattery, Watson had close-cropped hair, brown eyes and a wide, easygoing smile when times called for it. Right now wasn't that time and he stood at attention.

"Yes. Your assignment is to guard Crewman Popek. Someone just attempted to kill him earlier this morning." Slattery continued to explain the situation and the need for secrecy. Popek and Watson left the infirmary in hushed conversation. Popek was clearly confused as to why anyone would want to kill him.

B-B-B

Tom heard the soft knock at Rachel's door and disengaged himself from the warm covers that were wrapped around them. He hadn't been asleep; he was used to getting up early. He was just relaxing and hugging Rachel, which was one of his favorite pastimes. Careful not to wake Rachel, he got up and pulled on his work pants and a white regulation teeshirt before opening the door slightly. Slattery was standing there, camera and folder in hand.

"Something else has happened, Captain." Slattery said softly. Tom stepped back and let him into Rachel's living area.

"What now?" Tom maintained the same level of talking. Slattery produced printouts of Popek's neck that he'd printed out on his computer. He also had a handwritten report in a folder with Popek's full name on it.

"We've got a problem, Tom. Somebody tried to kill Crewman Popek this morning. He attempted to strangle him." Tom's eyebrows rose and he read more of Slattery's report.

"What the hell is going on? A murder, an attack on Rachel and now an attempted murder.

Slattery pulled out the notes and bookmark that Popek found on the floor. "Is this one of Sean's notes? Might just be a coincidence, because Popek said he didn't recognize his attacker. He knows Sean quite well, so it probably wasn't him."

Tom ran his hand through his blond-grey hair sighing. "Ever since those English transfers have joined us, we've had problems. Let's get pictures of all of them, and see if Popek can identify any of them."

"How's Doctor Scott?" Slattery switched subjects, "she doing better?"

"Yes, but it's going to take time. Right now she's scared and furious. She might want to leave her quarters today. How's her lab?"

"Sean, Beatrice and a couple volunteer crewman who know and like her cleaned the whole place up, put everything back and put welcome back notes for her. Sean has been feeding the animals, cleaned the cages and what not and Beatrice is helping him."

"So, we can take a walk to the lab, then," Tom said.

"Speaking of Sean, Popek found one of his bookmark notes in the gym after the attacker left. It's probably a coincidence. He still works out with you, right?"

"Every morning except for yesterday," Tom said taking the piece of paper from Slattery. "I'll ask him."

"You don't like my gentle, nurturing approach, eh?" Slattery laughed when he said it.

"Do you want him to start tap dancing because of his nerves," Tom said.

Mike started laughing, "Am I that intimidating?"

"Sometimes," Tom tucked the bookmark in his pocket, "and, always to Sean."

"Wasn't too long ago, he couldn't even look at you."

"I had help warming him up to me," Tom indicated the bedroom with his head. "Rachel insisted and you know how that goes."

Slattery sobered a bit as his conversation returned to Popek. "I've put a guard on him, so it doesn't happen again."

"What is the connection between Sorenson and Popek?" Tom asked.

"He was one of the two guards on Sorenson's detail. They were nicer than most, and Sorenson got away with a lot because of it. Remember?"

"Right. I thought his name sounded familiar. The other guard was Simpson, James Simpson. Have we checked on him yet?"

"I did on my way over here. He was sleepy but alive. I assigned a guard to him, just in case."

Slattery's walkie talkie bleeped. "Yes, this is Slattery."

A female voice came online. It was Commander Garnett. "Sir, I've got a dead body in engineering, my nightshift crewman. He was working alone last night. It looks like he put up one heck of a fight. There's blood everywhere; I think he was hit in the back of the head."

"Shit," Slattery said, then hit the talk button. "Close off that area. I'll be there as soon as possible. What's the name of that crewman?"

"Crewman Marcus Stiles. He was well liked by everybody, hard worker and no problem to me at all."

Slattery pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the news for a moment. Looking at the captain, he said, "I'm going to need some help if bodies and near bodies keep dropping like this."

Tom was now wide awake, and like Slattery he was worried. Whoever was killing people and attempting to kill people didn't look like he was going to stop. Thanks to Popek's description, such that it was, they could rule out women as suspects according to Slattery. Popek was sure it was a man who attacked him.

"What about Swain?" Tom suggested. Someone capable of attempted rape might be able to kill. It was just an escalation in violence.

Slattery looked thoughtful for a moment, "I'll check his alibis, and I was going to confine him to his quarters when he's not on duty until this matter was settled. He's definitely sleazy, but that's not an official statement; I don't see him getting his hands dirty by killing someone, and definitely not with a garrote. I'll check, though."

"It would kill two birds with one stone," Tom said.

"Things are never that easy, besides Swain is a bit of a dandy for all of his posturing," Slattery grinned, "And, I know that was not politically correct."

Tom laughed with him. Let's get pictures of the other seven Englishmen, and see if Popek can identify anyone. He's our best lead so far."


End file.
